Resurrection
by a tattered rose
Summary: PostEp to “Life is Priceless.” Echoes of the climax haunted him in the silence of the after.


Resurrection

_A/N: This is for Mel. Who supplied half the corner puzzle pieces I needed to get anywhere. Not finished yet and rather late for a 'post ep' but better late than never eh? I didn't actually intend to write this scene, so hopefully Cal didn't lead me too far astray._

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_Earth to earth, ____ashes to ashes, dust to dust__; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into eternal life._ -Book of Common Prayer

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Echoes of the climax haunted him in the silence of the after. Looping back on themselves over and over again and he knew he would not be able to sleep that night.

"_Tell my wife... I love her."_

"_We got to stop the drilling."_

And then the concussion from the explosions. Repeated like overlapping laughter of the gods with each new roll of thunder, each blinding strike of uncontrolled lightening. Until the end, sudden as it began. Horrifying finality stopped minds and bodies in their tracks, left them scrambling for sense over the residual ringing in their ears.

The sound of failure. Of death. Of lies and confusion and hero complexes at work.

A bottle, hope for relief sleek between his fingers. He tipped the contents onto his tongue, holding the burn before swallowing. Instant warmth in his chest flew to his head for a moment of numbness before the next cycle began to creep on. Blunt's face, staring into the camera as if he knew_... _as if he _knew _this was the last time his voice would be heard, his face seen.

These ghosts of sound and vision he could deal with. He'd met them before, in different guises. But it was the taste that overwhelmed, made him want to retch – dust and ash coating his tongue and teeth and choking his throat every time the blast echoes sped his heart. Alcohol was a poor solution but nothing else would rid him of that taste – at least for a few minutes more.

Cal twisted the top from another bottle, set both back on the desktop with a sigh. Not yet. He could hold out while the pain was sharp, while there was something to feel. So long as he could maintain the illusion that there was something to be done, something he could _do. _It was always worse in the after. The silence. The stillness. Sterile walls which were meant to be blank canvas-

"_Tell my wife..."_

-but whenever he had cause to notice them only reminded him that he had nothing to _do._

"_I love her."_

Nowhere to go. No one to block out the memories imprinting themselves deeper and deeper as if they were afraid to be forgotten.

"_We got to stop-"_

If only he could stop remembering.

"_-stop the drilling."_

Would there be peace? Gillian would likely notify him that he was the one afraid. Afraid to forget, afraid to be forgotten. Maybe it was true. He didn't particularly care since it wasn't an explanation that would help make the voices _STOP_

_THE_

_DRILLING._

Every nuance of the explosion lanced through his head. As perfectly remembered as the intonation of sentences spoke by familiar voices. A foreign, primal language of rage and destruction, meaning uncertain but intent undisputed.

Over and done. Nothing to be done. One thing he could do. Decisive movements plucked the bottle from table and deposited the whiskey onto the ash. Swishing it like mouthwash and waiting for his tongue to clear.

"Hey." One word, an unexpected intrusion in the external solitude. He knew who she was but she was laughing gently before he could pin her down and wonder why she was there. _Gillian. _"I thought you could use a real drink."

Her skin was clean. Very like her, to wash her hands and her face soon as there were facilities for it. Wash away the grime, the dust, the echoes of memory too, he believed. He had asked why before, he no longer needed to hear her answer. _Because I can. Because it helps no one if I don't. Dirt is one thing, but dirty makeup? Try it sometime Cal, you'll understand._

Always such a conundrum of emotion and reason, Gillian was. No one ever hoped the two concepts would be mutually exclusive. But no one who had seen the world, really seen it, would still argue that they weren't.

Except Gillian. Wearing her naivety like a costume cloak, playing in the folds until she would push them back and reveal the sharp mind beneath.

She made him feel like a child. Sometimes. When he looked upon her and all he saw was a hero. With all the answers and it was with a certain mix of dread and anticipation that he waited for her to fall and prove herself merely human.

"And a bath." A child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. The babysitter comes by with pudding and a spoon, laughs at the naughty boy on the counter with grubby hands and face covered in crumbs. Wipes up his mess and gives him his bowl anyway.

"Well I can't help you with that." A consummate performer, her hands busy at one task while her eyes met his with a playful flick of her cloak. "Why do people always think they're the only one with a secret?"

She spoke to the glasses, controlled liquid falls. Little boy with a frog in his pocket, she heard the ribbits but let him keep his treasure hidden for a while longer. How much more of him did she know, than he ever knew of her?

Unfair to resent her for it. Unfair that she knew to begin with. "Human nature I suppose." Unfair that he felt a little better whenever she found him out.

And then she sat. With a bone weary sigh sinking into the padded chair in a manner very un-Gillian. She of perfect posture even at the end of a long day – spent in heels, no less. Rocking her head back against the material as if at home, alone, ready to fall asleep.

"If the mayor had told the truth. Or Blunt..." The specter of Blunt swam briefly up, but even the image of a man about to due couldn't compete with her eyes, so intent on the whiskey rocking gently in her glass. "had been honest about his illness. None of this would have happened." Maybe he was wrong, about her cloak. Or what lay beneath. "If the lies... hadn't come together."

Cal found himself wanting to touch her. Just once. Just to make sure she was real. Not another phantom in place of the ones she had banished with her presence. But she was still too far away. And like that incomplete subflooring, he knew any movement might shatter the moment. Send them both falling.

"They always do." A video cable woven through the wreakage. Not rescue. Neither side exactly safe. But it was something. It was hope.

They weren't alone.


End file.
